by Lynn Kurland
“My lord?”
Christopher inclined his head toward the door. “Come in, Jason.”
“You seem in a fine mood, my lord,” Jason said, sounding as if he were smiling because of that discovery.
“Idle thoughts,” Christopher said, with a smile. “Tell me, lad, did you fetch Ranulf?”
“Aye, my lord. He comes presently.”
“Well done. We’ll see if this works any better tonight than it did yestereve.”
“’Tis a fine idea, my lord. I don’t know why we haven’t done it sooner.”
“’Twas your father’s idea, Jason. When he was here he suggested it, but I said him nay.”
“Why, my lord?”
Christopher shrugged and smiled faintly. “Too much pride, I suppose. I remember how it felt to cross swords with him and I couldn’t bear to have it be less than it was.”
“I understand, my lord.”
“You know,” Christopher continued, “when I could see, I never saw your father smile when he faced me over blades.”
“Neither did I,” Jason agreed. “He was working far too hard to keep you at bay, my lord. Ever he says that you are the only sport left for him.”
“Were,” Christopher corrected.
“Aye, my lord,” Jason said softly. “But I daresay you will be again.”
Christopher doubted it very much, but he shook aside the thought before it troubled him. He turned at the footfall behind him. “Ranulf?”
“Aye,” his captain said, closing the chamber door behind him. “I’ve brought the other sword. May I catch my breath from climbing the stairs, or will you begin straightaway?”
“Saints, old man,” Christopher said, “you tire so soon?”
“I’m resting against what you’ll put me through, my lord,” Ranulf said, sounding exhausted by the thought.
And for some reason, Christopher found himself cheered by it. He balanced the wooden sword in his hand and felt something akin to pleasure flow through him. He was training—and against something that breathed. A month ago, he wouldn’t have dreamed he’d be doing the like.
It had been Colin’s revealing of Gillian’s plans that had brought him to this pass. The thought of his wife trudging up to Artane to beg training from Robin so she might slay her sire had been simply more than Christopher could take. Here was a girl who had screamed aloud at night while dreaming of her father, yet she’d found the courage to wish to face him and best him. Christopher had been humbled by the strength of her resolve.
And by the love that prompted that resolve.
So he’d made a resolution himself. He’d decided to take Robin’s suggestion and work on his swordplay.
At first, Jason had aided him, calling out the signals Christopher was accustomed to use while jousting. After almost a fortnight of that, Christopher had realized how poorly such a thing would serve him. He hadn’t been able to hear Colin’s directions the last time he’d faced Warewick; he likely wouldn’t be able to concentrate on signals the next time either.
So he’d learned to rely on his ears. He used Ranulf’s voice and the whisper of his clothing to understand where his captain was and where he was moving. And he’d discovered firsthand that the only way to keep his captain at bay was to be continually on the offensive. The moment he pulled back, he was lost. At least when he was on the attack, Ranulf didn’t have the time to mark anything but the arc of Christopher’s blade. The moment he ceased to press forward, Ranulf seemingly had the presence of mind to search out and make use of Christopher’s weaknesses.
To say that he hadn’t earned his share of splinters would have been a lie. But he’d given his share too. And for the first time in three years, Christopher felt confident in his skill. He’d spent so many hours parrying against unseen foes. To parry against a live one again was a heady pleasure.
“Let us begin,” Christopher said, raising his blade. “Agreed?”
“Agreed,” Ranulf said, from behind him.
Christopher whirled around and wood met wood. And then he had no more time for thinking. He poured all his energies into listening and attacking.
Time and time again, he struck out at his captain. He earned only a few scratches, and gave more than his share. He fought until his arms ached and his head pounded from the effort of listening.
“My lord, I beg you! Peace!” Ranulf exclaimed.
Christopher dragged his arm across his sweaty brow.
“Ranulf, you woman, why do you cry peace?” he demanded.
“Torment your squire, my young, lusty lord. Just until I catch my breath.”
Christopher ground his teeth in frustration. “If I use my squire as sport, I’m liable to put this bloody wooden sword through his eye. If Jason dies, Robin will slow-roast me on a spit over a weak fire. On the other hand, if you die, your father will likely send me several bottles of his finest in thanks.”
“My father is already dead,” Christopher’s captain panted.
“Then what have you to worry about?” Christopher said, fighting a smile. “Another hour, old man, then a rest. I feel as fresh as if I’d just stepped from my tent on a cool morning.”
“You certainly don’t smell that way, my lord.”
Christopher barked out a laugh, declining to censure his captain. The man ten years Christopher’s senior was normally very taciturn, executing his duties with a grim thoroughness. But to banter again while parrying was a long-missed pleasure. To do anything besides concentrate on keeping himself from swaying with dizziness was a pleasure. Perhaps he was now repaid for all those hours spent training. At the time he’d done it simply to cling to the thought that he was still a warrior. Now he could taste the fruits of his labors and they were sweet ones indeed.
He would find Bernard of Warewick and see him repaid for Gillian’s scars and his own humiliation. Then he would have Gillian fetched home. And then he would demand that she never again do something as foolish as leave—
“Saints!” he exploded as Ranulf’s polished wooden blade found its mark on his ribs.
“I thought you were attending me!” Ranulf exclaimed. “Damnation, Christopher, cease with your daydreaming!”
“I daresay he was mooning over the lady Gillian,” Jason said wisely.
“Of course I wasn’t,” Christopher said crossly, rubbing his side.
“You were wearing that look, my lord,” Jason noted.
Christopher snatched Ranulf’s sword and flung it where he knew his squire was sitting in the alcove of the tower room.
“On your feet, child. You’ll pay for your sport.”
Jason didn’t give him the benefit of an answer and Christopher cursed him thoroughly for it. And damn Artane’s brat if he wasn’t as silent as a ghost! Christopher prodded the air with his sword, seeking some kind of resistance. He came up with nothing.
The sting of a wooden sword across his arm had him whirling toward his squire. He found Jason’s blade and countered with a thrust of his own. Jason gasped and Christopher followed the sound with a merciless attack. But Jason hadn’t learned his craft from the Dragon for naught. Christopher was pleasantly surprised at his squire’s returning parries.
And he was even more surprised at his ability to counter them.
Everything he’d ever learned, all the countless hours spent in the lists repeating the same stroke hundreds of times to perfect it, came back to him fully. Jason’s blade found its mark a time or two, but Christopher’s reflexes saved him from being more than touched. Then with a duck and a lunge, Christopher came up under Jason’s blade, caught his squire by the wrist and pushed him back against the wall, immobilizing him. He laid his wooden blade across the lad’s throat and grinned down at him.
“You’re dead, little lad.”
“And gladly so,” Jason panted.
Christopher cast his sword aside and pulled Jason into a rough hug. “You’ve become a fine warrior, Jason. I’m powerfully pleased with you.”
Jason returned the embr
ace fiercely, then stepped back quickly. “Thank you, my lord.”
Christopher slung his arm around Jason’s shoulders and listened for Ranulf. “What think you, old man, of this lad of mine?”
“You’ve trained him well, my lord,” Ranulf said, clapping Christopher heartily on the shoulder. “His father couldn’t have chosen a better man to do the deed. Now may we seek out some ale?”
“Aye,” Christopher grinned. “Ale for us and a handsome wench for the young one here. He’s earned a bit of play.”
• • •
CHRISTOPHER’S GOOD HUMOR LASTED UNTIL HE FINALLY reached his bedchamber much later that evening. He cast himself down on a fur before the fire and listened to the wood crackle and pop in the hearth. Had Gillian been beside him, he would have pulled her underneath him and loved her until they both wept from exhaustion. Then he would have carried her to his bed, curled up with her and slept, content to hold her slender body next to his.
He groaned at the thought. Gillian was likely freezing to death. He’d seen more supplies sent out to her, but he wouldn’t rest easy until she was back home where she belonged.
And he would have her fetched. Soon. Once he had remastered his art and once her father was no more. He would send some foolhardy lad up that perilous path to bring her home.
Then he would never let her from his arms again.
thirty-four
GILLIAN WOKE WITH A GASP. THE DARKNESS IN THE HALL was stifling. She could find no air to breathe. She fumbled for kindling to throw on the coals left in the hearth. Only when she had a hardy blaze going did she manage to relax enough to catch her breath.
Something was terribly wrong. She could feel it. It had everything to do with darkness. Oh, how she wished she’d never left Blackmour! At least she could have slept outside Christopher’s door and been his eyes for him. But now she was too far away to help; she knew deep inside help was what he needed, and soon.
She got to her knees and began to pray.
• • •
CHRISTOPHER WOKE ABRUPTLY, HIS HEAD STILL FULL OF his dreams. They had been evil ones indeed. He rubbed his hands over his face and took a deep breath. He let it out slowly, forcing away the lingering unease that filled him.
He stretched out his hand and rested it on the place where Gillian had lain for so many weeks. Saints, but he never should have let her stay away this long! He’d been bloody stubborn and far too proud. He could have just as easily allowed Colin to finish Warewick. In spite of the hours he’d spent parrying with Ranulf, it wasn’t as if he himself could walk into Warewick’s bedchamber and do the deed himself!
It did no good to think on it, given the hour and his mood. He swung his legs out of bed and sat up, forcing himself not to heed the chill of the wood beneath his feet. It had been months since he’d had such foul dreams. He’d dreamed poorly since then, but nothing as black as what he’d just experienced. He paused, realizing when they’d lessened.
When Gillian had begun to sleep in his bed.
He rose abruptly. No matter the weather, he would have Gillian fetched home today. Berengaria had spoken truly. ’Twas but his pride that had kept him idle for so long. He didn’t wish to be remembered as a fool in matters concerning his lady.
He dressed quietly and then felt for his sword. The house was quiet, a sure sign there wouldn’t be any soul overanxious to do his bidding. Perhaps a few hours spent training would pass the time and clear his poor brain. He walked to the door and slid back the bolt.
“Come, Wolf,” he said as he stepped out into the passageway. He pulled the door closed behind him and leaned back against it for a moment to gain his bearings.
Indeed, no sounds save Wolf’s claws against the wooden floor broke the stillness of the night. Christopher was certain he hadn’t slept long. Even on those rare nights when he managed to sleep more than a few hours, he slept poorly. Saints, he had grown far too accustomed to Gillian in his bed. How many times had he woken at night only to have her soothe him back to sleep?
A low noise startled him from his reverie. He stood still and strained to hear anything else. Mayhap it was merely a serving wench making her way back from some nightly tryst.
Wolf whined softly and bumped Christopher’s hand with his nose.
“Then you heard it, too?” Christopher murmured.
Perhaps it was only Cook fumbling about in the larder. The man certainly never seemed to lack for girth about his middle. Christopher frowned. Perhaps he would do well to stroll about the keep in the middle of the night more often. Who knew what sorts of things truly went on?
A soft footfall came his way, startling him.
“Reveal yourself,” he commanded.
“’Tis me, my lord.”
“Ah, Jason,” Christopher said, relaxing.
“Aye, my lord. I heard you stir. Is there aught I can do for you?”
“Perhaps you can. Heard you any strange noise?” he asked.
“Aye, but I thought it was you,” Jason said.
“Indeed,” Christopher mused. “For all I know, it could have been.”
“Foul dreams, my lord?”
“Aye, lad. ’Tis one of the blessings of a long and misspent youth, no doubt.”
“As you say, my lord. But it wasn’t a cry I heard. ’Twas more of a thumping noise. Shall I have a look in your chamber and see if aught has been displaced?”
Christopher nodded.
He heard Jason move, then stop abruptly at the low sound. Indeed, ’twas more of an echo of a sound than the noise in truth. Christopher felt the hair rise on the back of his neck.
“That wasn’t in your chamber,” Jason breathed.
“Aye,” Christopher agreed, “it surely wasn’t.”
“Shall I fetch my sword, my lord?”
“Aye, and a pair of crossbows.” The bow wasn’t Christopher’s weapon of choice, but as of late he’d begun to regard it with more favor. Chances were should he discharge a bolt in the direction of an enemy’s voice, he would likely strike his target. Not to mention the pleasant distance a bow allowed one to keep between oneself and an opponent’s sword.
A chill ran through him. It was the same cold feeling of dread he’d experienced before every battle he’d ever been in. That he should feel such unease in his own passageway was troubling indeed. Warewick couldn’t have breached the gates. No one ever had. Blackmour was unassailable. Artane may have intimidated by sheer size; Blackmour did it by mere positioning. Only a fool would have braved the shoals around the island, and only an even greater fool would have attempted to scale the walls. Christopher could remember only one such attempt. By the time the man had reached the top of the walls, he’d been so exhausted by the climb it had taken but a gentle push by a guard to send him tumbling down to his death.
Surely Warewick was not that foolhardy.
“Bows and quarrels,” Jason said, breathlessly. “Where now, my lord?”
“To the great hall,” Christopher said, turning toward the stairs. “And quietly, Jason. Perhaps ’tis nothing more than someone who has ingested more ale than was meet.”
“Hmmm,” Jason said, but he didn’t sound convinced.
Indeed, Christopher thought with the faintest of smiles, Jason sounded almost eager. He sighed. Ah, the poor lad. He’d missed out on much during the past three years.
Christopher counted the steps as he descended them silently. He paused at the entrance to the great hall and listened carefully.
Nothing but the snoring of men and hounds.
“Jason, do you see anything?” he whispered.
He felt Jason peer around him. “Nay, my lord. No one stirs.”
“To the kitchens, then. Perhaps Cook is at his bread making earlier than usual.”
Christopher eased his way out into the hall, hoping he wouldn’t step on anyone by mistake. Blessedly, he encountered nothing but a stray bone lurking in the rushes. Gillian would have been in a fine temper if she’d found the like.
He paused at t
he entrance to the kitchens. There was no sound save Cook’s hearty snoring.
“Saints,” Jason muttered from beside him, “’tis a wonder any of us sleeps.”
“True enough,” Christopher agreed. “Perhaps we’ll have Gillian take him to task over it when she returns.”
Jason was silent for a moment. “Then she’s coming home?”
“Aye,” Christopher said softly, “as soon as we finish our business here. ’Tis past time. Now, see you anything amiss?”
Christopher heard Jason shift at his side, then take a step or two out into the kitchen. Then he stepped back.
“Nay, my lord. Everyone sleeps.”
Christopher frowned. ’Twas certain he had heard something, but where had it come from?
Wolf leaned against his leg and Christopher reached down to scratch the beast between the ears.
“What do you see, my friend?” he whispered. “To be sure, your eyes are better than mine tonight.”
Wolf nudged his hand with his cold nose but offered no further opinion on the matter.
Christopher leaned against the wall and contemplated. Though he could hear nothing amiss, he was yet uneasy. Hadn’t just such a premonition of something amiss been what made him trail Colin in the battle of Conyers? Had he not done so, Colin would have died. Berkhamshire’s skill was enviable, but there came a point when even the most skilled can be outnumbered.
Christopher rubbed his stubbled jaw thoughtfully. Warewick had been cunning enough, gaining the inner bailey under the guise of a merchant. The man bore watching. The saints only knew what he knew of Blackmour’s defenses. If the man and Lina had truly been lovers, and that was something Christopher did not want to dwell on, there was no telling what the man had discovered. Lina had shown no interest in the inner workings of Blackmour, but perhaps that too had been a ruse. Saints, but sight hadn’t served him. He hadn’t seen what was going on under his nose.
“My lord,” Jason whispered, “perhaps we should venture to the cellars.”